Mind of the Phoenix (16 page)

The moment he has closed the door to his office, I turn to face him. “So is that why you visit the dream house, detective?” This time, I phrase it so that it lacks the mocking tone I used back in the dream house.

He regards me with those unyielding eyes as he says softly, “
That
, Moira, would require an answer of your own.”

He’s offering an exchange. He steps closer and I have to crank my neck slightly to maintain eye contact. The brilliance in his eyes has returned, along with a recognizable hunger. No, he’s not an empath, but he definitely has the hunger of one. He’s just as curious about me as I am of him. I suppose the trade-off is a fair deal—as long as he doesn’t ask about Scott. But is it a compromise I’m willing or able to accept?

I had done a similar thing with Evan, back at the dream house. I gave him access to my mind while probing his, and we left each other’s locked doors undisturbed. But that had been an easy trade-off. As I peer into Keenan’s eyes, I know that neither one of us will have the restraint to respectfully turn away from the other’s sealed doors. Our curiosity cannot be contained. Eventually, we’ll end up demanding everything from one another. Falling into those green eyes will be a lot more complicated than my brief exchange with Evan, and the idea terrifies me. I’m accustomed to prodding other people’s minds, not sharing my own.

He holds out his hand, palm facing up—a small gesture, yet one that cannot be ignored. He’s close enough that I can smell his scent beneath the lingering odour of smoke, and his hand looks so inviting. I have always thought that a person’s hands say a lot about them, just like their eyes, and have always been captivated with the intricacy found in the small appendage. Hands are extremely dextrous and possess a lot of character, with their varied lines and individual fingerprints. They are also very intimate. We experience the world—and other people—through them. I glance down at his long fingers and ask myself if I’m brave enough. It is the first time that he is willingly allowing physical contact between us, and a part of me wonders where his previous revulsion had gone.

“Isn’t that what you wanted since the first day we met?”

It is. I had offered him my hand that day at the Chief’s house even though I knew that he wouldn’t take it.

“Is this a trick, detective?”

His eyes soften with amusement. “No, Moira,” he replies, and his voice is the gentlest I’ve ever heard it. “But I expect something in return, and what you take can only be equivalent to what you give me.” He raises a brow. “You look rather frightened.”

I’m terrified. This man
frightens
me—his probing gaze and the desire he elicits within me. Nothing with the detective can or would be purely physical. Eventually, both of our emotions and our pasts would find their way between us, and it would either separate us or bind us together.

“Hardly,” I scoff, feigning confidence. “I’m just wondering if maybe I have more to lose than you do.”

“I suppose you’ll never know unless you try,” he says. “Besides it’s an offer that can be retracted any time.”

I don’t know whether or not it is strength or weakness that drives me to touch his hand, but the moment I do, his fingers curl over mine. His palm is warm and his grip is firm. I’m suddenly struck with a thought that makes me want to laugh bitterly: I don’t think I’ve ever held a man’s hand before. I look into his eyes and find myself falling into a sea of green. His mind is like the elaborate inner workings of a clock—always ticking—and I doubt there is ever a time when it is silent. No wonder he has trouble sleeping. He’s simultaneously unsettled and intrigued by my presence in his mind. He wants to understand how it’s possible for me to read his thoughts and he wishes that he could read mine. He wants to know what I’ll take from him…

His grip suddenly tightens when I trail a finger along a gear. “That felt
weird
,” he says, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “What did you do?”

“Relax, Keenan,” I say softly, suppressing a laugh. I try to remember if I’ve ever seen him relaxed. His face has always been drawn inward in thought or outward in examination.

I like his mind. The soft ticking of the clock is soothing. I can sense that he enjoys my presence, the way I touch the cogs and gears in his mind. In a way, it’s more intimate than my hand in his palm, so I continue to trail my finger along the working gears.

“
Moira–
”

Those green eyes soften, almost as if he is suddenly drowsy, but his hand continues to hold mine with a deadly grip. He feels vulnerable and isn’t accustomed to the feeling. He wants to know what exactly I’m doing in his mind as I continue to wander. His mind isn’t like most of the ones I’ve encountered. It’s always deflecting away from him, constantly thinking about the world around him. I had assumed that it was his way of guarding himself from others, yet now that I’m in his mind I realize that he’s not only guarding himself from other people. He’s shielding his mind from himself as well. I would have to find a way out of this clock to access the halls of his past, but for now I’m content to simply listen to the gears move.

After a moment, I sigh and reluctantly pull away from his mind. His green eyes come into focus, and I smile at the obvious confusion in the way his brows are furrowed.

“You’re sort of hurting my hand, detective,” I say teasingly.

He loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go. “Aren’t I supposed to know if you pry into one of my memories?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t I sense it?”

“Because I didn’t pry into any of your memories.”

“Then what were you doing?”

“Feeling around,” I say breezily. “Getting to know how your mind works, the layout–”

“The layout,” he echoes dryly.

“Yes,” I say, and then smile. I don’t tell him that his mind resembles a clock because I’m afraid that his awareness would alter the layout. I also don’t tell him that I would need to find a way
out
of the clock in order to browse the memories that he’s carefully hiding.

“I see.”

“Are you going to let go of my hand, detective?” I ask, simultaneously thrilled and anxious about the prolonged contact.

He glances down at our entwined hands. “No.” His eyes narrow in contemplation and then dart up at mine. “It would be unfair if I were to release you during my question. Besides, I find it makes it feel more like a conversation between confidants, rather than an interrogation.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I agree breathlessly. It definitely makes the exchange more intimate.

I suddenly don’t know what’s worse: telling a truth about oneself to a stranger, or to a friend whose opinion about you matters. The former seems much easier now.

“So what’s your question?” I ask, trying to hide my nervousness.

Please, don’t ask about
him.
At least, not now. Please…

“When we were at Mr. Hayes’s estate, Jonathan seemed to know you.”

I immediately relax. “Is there a question in there, detective?”

“I want to know why you were eager to leave.”

I look into those green eyes, that threaten to consume me. “Would you like me to tell you, or show you?” He narrows his eyes in confusion, so I continue. “Haven’t you ever thought about how the dream weavers are able to pull you into a dreamscape?” His eyes say yes, even if he doesn’t respond. “Well, I can do a similar thing, but, instead of a dreamscape, I can show you a memory.” He gives me a look and I quickly add, “And no, this isn’t a skill exclusive to me. Most empaths can do it, although they rarely ever have reason to show someone who’s not an empath a memory of theirs.”

“Alright, show me,” he says. He’s thrilled by the idea, the prospect of knowing
more.

I wonder if he’ll still like the idea after I’ve shown him the memory. With a sigh, I step back into that clockwork mind of his and plant a hand firmly on one of the gears. His grip tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. In my own mind, I search for the memory of Jonathan and tug on the string as if I’m opening up a bag. I let the memory play itself along the gear’s surface and his mind begins to whirl with thoughts. He hadn’t expected me to show him this sort of memory, and I can feel his guilt creep up. But I understand why he had asked, because my own curiosity gets the best of me most of the time. I only show him enough to let him know why I wanted to leave Jonathan’s presence as soon as possible, and then retreat from his mind. Normally, I’d be tempted to stay in his mind for a little longer, but I’m frightened to know what he thinks about the memory I have shown him.

The door to his office opens, and I immediately pull my hand away. Rick blushes, knowing that he had interrupted something. “Sorry, sir. You told me to come at this time to escort Moira back to the hotel.”

The detective clears his throat and steps away from me. “Yes, Jamieson.”

K
eenan hasn’t mentioned
anything regarding the memory since I showed him a few days ago in his office. His silence makes the voice in my head grow louder, and I begin to think that he was actually horrified, and is disgusted with my past. I know I would be, because I’m the one who experienced it and can barely tolerate recalling the memories myself. To him, I’m tainted—damaged. Perhaps he feels pity. Would that be worse than disgust? I think about those green eyes regarding me with a look that says, “I’m sorry you had to experience that, Moira.” Yes, pity would definitely be worse. His silence probably means he has retracted the offer, deciding that my past is too horrifying for him to deal with. He made a demand, and now he can’t even follow through with it.

I’m suddenly angry with him for demanding that I reveal myself and then abandoning me. I shouldn’t have shown him the memory. Why did I feel the need to trust him? It’s not as if we are actually friends, or even partners for that matter.

I walk down the stairs, careful not to trip on the train of my dress. Tonight, the detective is escorting me to Mr. Hayes’s private event. I’m wearing a dark blue evening dress this time, with my cleavage barely contained in the low neckline. One of the hotel maids has curled the front of my hair again, since it is still too short to tie up. The detective’s eyes appraise me slowly, and he silently helps me into the motor vehicle. He’s finally shaved, but I assume that has to do with the fact that we are attending a private event.

We’re silent on the way to Mr. Hayes’s estate, which makes me even angrier. She has convinced me once again that the detective cannot be trusted. When we enter the crowded house, I hope that my chances of running into either Daniel or Jonathan are slim. Like at the previous event, the detective introduces me as his property.

“Try not to drink too much wine this time, Moira.”

“Why’s that, detective?” I ask, irritated. “Afraid I’ll throw myself at you again?”

“No, I–”

“Besides,” I say, interrupting him. “I hardly think
you
should be advising me on limiting my alcohol consumption.”

His eyes narrow and I can tell he’s annoyed. “Moira–”

“Ah, there you two are,” says a familiar voice, and I turn away from the detective to see Mr. Hayes’s amber eyes regarding us suspiciously. “Oh, I apologise. Am I intruding on some sort of lover’s quarrel?”

“Hardly,” I say, just as Keenan replies, “No.”

Mr. Hayes’s smile widens. “Well, I’m glad I found you, Mr. Edwards. Mr. Harrison has been asking for you. I imagine he wishes to discuss the case with you in private.” The detective glances at me as if I actually
am
his property. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll entertain sweet Moira in your absence.
Again
.”

When Keenan hesitates, I say, “Go ahead, detective.” He doesn’t like the idea of leaving me alone with Mr. Hayes, but neither can he refuse to speak with Mr. Harrison. I’m not allowed to be a part of their discussion, and I hate that I’m offended. Why do they even need my help?

The detective finally leaves and, in his absence, I immediately snatch a glass of wine from a passing server. The sweet aroma beckons me to indulge and I willingly oblige.

“Planning to get drunk again, are we?” Those amber eyes twinkle with amusement.

“I’ve not experienced many circumstances that call for alcohol, and I rather enjoy the taste of wine.”

“As do I,” he agrees, offering me his arm. I take it and follow him through the crowd. “I hope Jonathan behaved himself the last time we saw each other.”

“He did his best, I’m sure.”

“Ah, so he wasn’t well behaved,” he says, glancing at me sideways.

“Again, his best, I’m sure. But I presume he serves you well as your personal blocker.”

“He does,” he says, pausing to grab a glass of wine. “And I suspect that you are serving the detective very well also.”

He leads me out to the terrace, where a few guests are lingering around the garden. “By the way, you look lovely tonight, Moira. The dark colour compliments you very well.”

“You don’t look too bad yourself, Mr. Hayes,” I tease, taking a sip of my wine.

“Please, call me Icarus,” he says, leaning against the terrace railing. “Mr. Hayes is so formal, and I’d like to think of us as friends. Friends call each other by their first names.”

“Alright, Icarus,” I say, testing the name on my tongue. It sounds strange.

He chuckles softly. “My mother had a fanciful mind and was intrigued with Greek mythology. Do you know of the myth of Icarus?”

I shake my head.

“His father, Daedalus, fashioned wings out of feathers and wax so that they could escape Crete. He warned Icarus to fly neither near the ocean nor close to the sun, but Icarus ignored his father’s cautions. Curious, he flew close to the sun, which melted the wax, and he fell to the ocean, where he drowned.”

“That’s tragic. Why would a mother ever name her child after such a myth?”

His smile widens. “Yes, my thoughts exactly. Supposedly there’s a lesson somewhere in there about ambition, blah, blah, blah, and all that sort of serious gibberish. But I’d much rather talk about something else.”

“Like what?”

“How captivating your eyes are,” he says, leaning toward me.

I laugh, and his smile vanishes. “Honestly, Moira, what is so amusing about that?” he asks, but I can see amusement in his eyes. “I speak the truth. I’ve never seen anyone who had one hazel eye and the other one blue.”

“Most people find it unnerving.”

“I disagree,” he states, his face a breath away from mine. “They’re electric, and when I look closer I can see bursts of colour and light. I daresay they have the power to unravel a man.” I snort and try to stifle my fit of giggles. He gives me a wounded expression, but continues. “Moira, you wound me with your mirth. How can you be so cruel?”

I look straight into his amber eyes and say, “Is this the sort of thing you said to Mia and Rachel Del Mar, or did you not even bother because you paid?”

“Oh, Moira,” he replies with a sigh. “I’m a man with needs and weaknesses just like any other person. Can you honestly say you have no faults?” He examines me intently, and, when I don’t respond, he continues. “I’m not a cruel man, Moira.”

His fingers brush my bare arm softly. I inhale sharply, both because he is willingly touching me and because of the pleasant shiver that courses through my body from his touch. His desire rushes into me like a persistent tide, and I almost lose my balance. I open my eyes, not realizing that I had closed them. Icarus leans forward as if he intends to kiss me, the movement prompting my own desire.

“You know, most people are afraid to touch me.”

“I have nothing to hide,” he responds softly, his fingers trailing up to my collarbone.

“Is that an invitation, Icarus?” Can he sense my eagerness?

“I’m touching you, aren’t I?” he whispers.

When I break through the barrier, I find a layout that is like most people’s minds, but before I can explore I’m bombarded with a rush of sexual thoughts that are directed at me. He wants me, wanted me since the first day we met. He’s been waiting—so patient. His desire suddenly unsettles me. It’s not like most of the men who had visited me back at the pleasure house, but it does remind me a little of the way Daniel regards me. Before I’m able to travel along that thought, my mind is overloaded with another wave of his desire and his lips press lightly against my neck.

“I’m not a selfish lover, Moira,” he murmurs into my ear. “I promise that you’ll enjoy every minute of it just as much as I will.”

This time I’m not laughing. He’s careful to let me know that if I accepted, it would be in no way a transaction between a Del Mar and her client. It’s not that he thinks he’s above paying me; it’s that paying assumes that the deed is a service. He wants me to know that he is attracted to me and that whatever happens between us is between two consenting adults who will take mutual pleasure in each other’s company. I can’t deny that I’m titillated, for it’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a man’s company that way. Am I actually capable of falling into a sexual relationship with this man? I find him attractive in his way and his personality seems amiable enough. It’s not like marriage is in my future, or even a romantic relationship with anyone, for that matter.

Icarus laughs softly against my neck. “You seem to be deliberating quite a lot on this, Moira. If we were somewhere private, you wouldn’t have so much as one thought running in that mind of yours.”

“That’s quite the statement. Are you sure you’re not being overly
ambitious
, Icarus?”

He laughs—a genuine sound that rumbles in his chest. “Oh, Moira–”

The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts him and he pulls away slightly. It’s the detective, and those green eyes are brighter than usual as they flicker between us, absorbing our proximity and the way in which Icarus’s hands touch my arms. I try to wash away the taste of his anger with a sip of my wine, hoping that my face isn’t flushed.

“Ah, Mr. Edwards,” says Mr. Hayes. “Don’t blame Moira. She didn’t persuade me.” He steps away from me, placing a polite distance between us. “I’m afraid the fault is all mine. Not all of us can resist the charms of a beautiful woman.”

“Normally, I’d ask if I should come back later,” says the detective, his eyes intently on Mr. Hayes. “But considering that your guests are under the impression that she’s
mine,
it would be unusual for me to walk away, leaving you alone with her.”

Mr. Hayes’s smile widens and his amber eyes glitter with amusement. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, Mr. Edwards.” His gaze then falls on me. “I really do hope you’ll consider, Moira. And remember my promise.”

Keenan’s eyes are now on me, demanding clarification. I smile at Mr. Hayes and say, “I will.”

Satisfied, he nods to us and then enters the house to join his guests. I don’t need to touch the detective to know that he is angry; I can see it plainly in his eyes. There’s an accusation in there, and that irritates me. It’s not as if I
actually
belong to him, and I hadn’t been trying to escape. My own anger toward him makes me speak out rashly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I hiss irritably. “I wasn’t trying to seduce him or anything to get into his head. Like he said,
he’s
the one who touched
me
.”

“Alright, Moira,” he says calmly, those green eyes always demanding so much.

“No,” I say harshly. “Don’t ‘alright, Moira’ me.” I step closer to him, wanting to be the one demanding for once. “You’re upset. Why?”

His eyes narrow suspiciously at my glass of wine, undoubtedly thinking that I’ve had too much even though I’ve only had one glass. “I have several reasons to be irritated right now, Moira, but none of them concern you.”

“Oh, really,” I say, wishing that I could step once more into that clockwork mind of his.

“Yes, now–”

“Well, I have several reasons to be irritated as well,” I blurt, interrupting him.

He glances down at my glass of wine again. “How much have you had to drink?”

“I’m not drunk, detective,” I retort peevishly, and then take a sip of my wine to prove my point.

“
Moira
–”

“Why haven’t you said anything about the memory I showed you?” I question suddenly, and then wish I hadn’t. Things like that you don’t bring up unless you’re searching for punishment. He’ll confirm what I have been thinking, saying that my mind is too damaged and that he wants no part in it.

“I don’t think this is the place or time to discuss this–”

“Fine,” I hiss, walking past him.

He grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh as he leans forward just like Mr. Hayes had done. “Read my thoughts, Moira,” he whispers, his face so close to mine. I can smell the scent of aftershave, and hate that I inhale it greedily.

I don’t hesitate to fall into those green eyes and soon find myself standing among the gears. He’s focusing all his energy on the thoughts that pertain to the day I showed him the memory, pushing the irrelevant ones off to the side. He hasn’t said anything about the memory because he doesn’t know what to say. Every time he has tried to broach the subject, I’ve given him a look that says that I will snap at him if he does. He doesn’t want to upset me or force me to talk about painful memories. He doesn’t understand why I showed him the memory, because, just like how I think he’s using me, a part of him thinks that I’m trying to manipulate him in a plan to escape. I can feel his guilt and suspicion, and now his anger rushes in, monopolizing his thoughts. He loathes the way Jonathan treated me, and he despises every other man who may have been my client, assuming that they were all like Jonathan, or perhaps crueller. And he especially hates that he saw Mr. Hayes touching me. He doesn’t like the man…

“Is that answer enough?” he asks quietly, those green eyes grounding me.

He doesn’t like how Mr. Hayes’s hands had been caressing my collarbone, or how his lips had been pressed against my skin. He hates that I hadn’t pulled away from the man and that I had seemed to be enjoying myself.

I nod, because I’m suddenly rendered mute. He surprises me by lowering his head, and for a moment I’m convinced that he will kiss me. I automatically close my eyes in anticipation, but, rather than feeling his lips against mine, I feel the soft pressure of a single kiss on the side of my neck. He lingers against my skin while his mind floods with the memory of the day when we had been arguing outside of Mr. Hayes’s estate, and how I had kissed his neck afterward as if to say all was well between us. I shiver, and hate that his lips have left me all too quickly.

“Ah, there you are Keenan,” says the Chief of Police. “Mr. Harrison wants to introduce you to the new Pleasure House Instigator.”

“They finally found someone brave enough to fill the position?” I question, curious to know who it is.

“Yes,” replies Keenan thoughtfully, releasing my arm.

We follow the Chief of Police toward a group of people seated in a room away from the other guests. I recognize several faces, such as the Memory House Instigator, Mr. Anderson; the Dream House Instigator and our host, Mr. Hayes; and the Chief Member of the Elite, Mr. Harrison. The rest are people I vaguely remember from the other social event at Mr. Anderson’s estate. A couple I recognize as previous clients of mine, but none of them captivate my attention, save the only other woman in the room. She’s beautiful, but not in the conventional way. The set of her jaw would most likely be considered too proud by the men in this room and her chin has the hint of a dimple in the centre. Her cheekbones are just as strong, but softened slightly by the blonde curls that frame her face. She’s tall, too, and holds her own in a room full of men despite the fact that she wears a dress. But it isn’t her appearance or the fact that she’s female that has attracted my gaze to her; it’s the horizontal ‘s’ burned into her right cheekbone with the two dots that has me indecorously staring at her.